


These Stolen Chariots

by lxghtwoodlxve



Category: Ainsley Harriot, Brooklyn nine-nine, Fall Out Boy, Gandhi - Fandom, Panic! at the Disco, Paramore, The Brobecks, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gay, Multi, Police, also ainsley harriot is such a dude, bren is bi, dallon is bi, hayley is sad, im sorry about debby, im sorry for the gandhi AU, imagine brooklyn nine-nine but with bands, no apologies im not even sorry, no beta sorry :((, possible smut??, ryan has dated literally everyone, ryan is the shit catalyst, sin - Freeform, so much gay, this is gonna be a hot mess, this is why i can't have nice things, ya lil nasties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-09 06:14:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10405764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lxghtwoodlxve/pseuds/lxghtwoodlxve
Summary: debby breaks up with dallon, a detective in brooklyn. it's brendon's first murder case. hayley is sad. ainsley harriot and mahatma gandhi appear a lot more than necessary.[my first ao3 fic, so i had to make it fuck-y. also ainsley and gandhi for the shits and giggles.][short chaps, sporadic uploads.][un-beta'd. all mistakes are my own :D][title may change]





	1. I Will, Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO FRENS  
> this is kind of an introductory chapter but i'm counting it as one  
> i hope u guys enjoy  
> it gets into the plot soon dw  
> stay strong, babes! -t xo

This place was packed. Absolutely, unequivocally, packed.

Cursing himself, Dallon ran a frustrated hand through his slightly damp hair. He cursed Debby, too, for even making him want to return to this God-forsaken house of sin. It’s not that he wasn’t excited, oh, trust me, he was. But you could barely breathe with the sweat slicked bodies all moving as if they were all a part of the same organism, a writhing, pulsing mass. (Or so his brain thought – he’d just finished reading Silence of the Lambs and was that way inclined right now).

Abandoning his post at the bar, he tried to move through the crowd as gently as he could. This one guy, however – quite a cute guy, if he was being honest – would not quit. Grabbing his waist, the short, cute blonde swayed his hips in just the right way, and Dallon was gone. _Heck, what’s one more dance?_ His brain thought, trying to keep up with his swift movements. _Heck, what’s one more one night stand when you’ve just been dumped over the phone by your shitty girlfriend and you really need some sympathy?_

Logic, however, took over like usual. Despite their impending dalliance, he knew that Short Blonde Twink wouldn’t last. He seemed like the type that would come home with you and stop in fear whenever they tried to get below the waist. So, Dallon took the lead and left him, trading off for another, less disappointing prospect.

Moving through the crowd once again, he found himself refusing every advance towards sex, and stepped into the night air with some trepidation. The bouncer – a tall, muscly guy named Zack – let him back out, patting his shoulder in sympathy. Dallon accepted and returned the gesture, and headed back home. He made it in surprising time, flopping face-first onto the sofa when he got in.

 _Guess I’ll just have to do it myself tonight_ , he sighed, and made his way to the kitchen. Discarding his shoes, socks and shirt along the way, he grabbed a glass of water and prayed that Debby had already come and gotten her things.

“Oh, I’m – I’m sorry,”

He cursed under his breath. Of fucking course she was still here, especially now that he stank of desperation and gin. Of _fucking_ course she chooses tonight to move her things, and _of fucking course_ she’s in a mini-dress while she does it. He clears his throat.

“It’s fine. Don’t sweat it.” He grits out, grip tightening on his cup. _Her_ cup, actually.

She nods, and grabs what he assumes is the last box of her things before throwing her key onto the kitchen counter and heading back out of the small studio apartment he’s called their home for three years. It lands neatly, and a few seconds later he hears the door slam. The rage in his chest bubbles over, and he flings her cup across the room, hitting the door to his room and shattering.

He feels tears being to form, but he doesn’t stop them this time. He remembers his therapist saying that it’s okay to cry, and so he allows it this once. Just one session of pure sobbing to get it all out of his system. And so he does. Ten minutes later, his breathing slows, his chest stops heaving, and he gets himself up from the kitchen floor and goes to clean up the mess, still sniffling. The cleaning process calms him, it’s almost therapeutic, and he puts the remnants of her cup in the bin.

“Fuck,” He swears under his breath, and rubs his hands over his face. They come away glittery, and he realises he needs to shower before he goes to sleep. He takes his time, but he’s in bed before he sees the message light up on his phone.

 **Hayley, 12:39 am**  
yo,,, my dude,,,, we need you in asap pls i’ll buy u donuts

 **Hayley, 1:47 am**  
duuuuuuude?? where are u???

 **Hayley, 2:15 am**  
srsly, not funny. the Vulture is here

 **Hayley, 5:23 am**  
GET IN HERE NOW

 **You, 8:13 am**  
IM SO SORRY ILL BE THERE IN FIFTEEN OK

 **Hayley, 8:17 am**  
better fuckin be. donuts are gone btw

 **You, 8:19 am**  
i’ll buy u guys some more?? (and the brownies that ainsley likes)

 **Hayley, 8:20 am**  
we love u dude!!

 **You, 8:21 am**  
ik lmao. ready to get srs or nah?

 **Hayley, 8:25 am**  
so basically major crimes gave us this case, it’s pretty hardcore, we need all the team on it. the captain’s gonna give u overtime if u need it okok

 **You, 8:26 am**  
holy shit, omw


	2. 2. Stay In Your Lane, Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u enjoy!!  
> stay safe, babes <3  
> \- t xo

On his way, Dallon stopped for those donuts.

Fuckin donuts, he thought, grabbing the big box they all like and remembering Ainsley’s brownies. He started wondering how they never got fat, like Scully from the Nine-Nine, but shoved that thought away. They deserved this for a Major Crimes case. The Vulture wanted to see them fail, or get the work done for him, but there was no way that they were letting him get this one.

Walking into the building, his gun on his hip, he felt safe. He could feel the routine setting in, going up to the desk to greet Dan Pawlovich, his favourite desk jockey. A simple high-five was all protocol allowed, but he still finger gunned his way out into the bullpen. Being greeted by the sight of the Vulture sat at his desk, however, wasn’t what he expected. That old, bird-like face – that’s why he got such a colourful moniker – set a weight in his stomach, and he groans. Not after a night like last night. Turning around, he heads for the briefing room, signalling to Hayley and some new guy that he’s heading in there rather than to have to deal with the Vulture.

Five minutes, and the Brooklyn 98 crew are assembled on desks. Hayley, freshly orange-haired and as short as ever, stood up to start the briefing. Her head barely cleared the podium, so she stepped down from it to better see everyone. Knowing smiles were exchanged and dollar bills snuck under desks.

“Since the Captain isn’t here today – he’s off for some meeting in Chicago, I don’t know who with – we’ve been, uh, ‘gifted’,” She snorts the word and glares in the Vulture’s general direction. “With a pretty hardcore case. Vulture is gonna be here to brief us in a minute, when he’s finished fucking up Dallon’s paperwork.”

“What-” Dallon goes to stand up, but a hand grips his shoulder, and he turns to shove at Ryan’s shoulder. “Stop it, let me at him-”

“No, we’re not getting written up because you care too much about your filing system.” Ryan murmur, urgently but firmly. He runs his hand along Dallon’s forearm, and winks. “We can get him back later, silly.”

“Anyhoo,” Hayley coughs, drawing the attention back to the front and gestures to the new guy. “So, new probie. We all know Matt has been shadowing the Captain, so while he’s away we’ve been gifted – actually gifted this time – with another one. Everyone, please be nice to Brendon Urie.” She makes a grand gesture towards him and he stands up, bowing with a shit-eating grin.

“Speech!” Ryan calls out, his face flushed and his eyes sparkling, a stupid little smile spreading over his face as he looks Brendon up and down, approval settling his features.

“Uh, no thanks. I’ve just graduated from the academy, and I’ve always  thought speeches were for new or old Captains.” Despite not being affected by Ryan’s obvious flirting, Brendon’s blushing as he sits back down, and Dallon shares a knowing look with Ainsley, who is leant against the door to the janitor’s closet at the back of the room. They have a silent conversation filled with hushed sighs and darting glances.

 _We need to have a word with Brendon_.

_Agreed. He needs to know about Ryan’s man-whoring ways._

_Dallon! Don’t be rude!_

_Psh, we’ve all been there. Even Tyler got some of that ass._

_My God._

_Look, it’s not like-_

“Detective Weekes, I didn’t know you could speak sign language.” The Vulture cuts in, now stood at the podium with a smug look on his face and a chagrined Hayley stood as near him as she could stand. Josh cuts in then, two tables in front of Dallon, running a frustrated hand through his fluffy brown hair.

“Yo, dude, I don’t mean to be an ass-”

“I do.”

“Tyler,”

“Sorry.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but can you get on with it? People are dead, yo.” The Vulture glares as he turns the lights off, pulling out the TV and putting a VCR in. The light from the TV all but blinds the crew as Hayley moves around the room to see better.

The quality is terrible, but they can make out a well-structured, thin face, with icy, piercing blue eyes. Half the room straightens up, shock written across their faces. The other half sagged in defeat. The video continued, however, showing her running across the street into an alleyway. She was followed by a woman in a dark suit, dark hair and a dark look on her face.

“ _Ouais. C’est vrai. Non, non, non, Cerys. Je suis bien. Ouais. Tu-_ ” A sigh. More mangled French with a frantic look around.

And a gunshot. They didn’t see where it had come from.

Then there were sirens, and shouts, and screams as passers-by saw the blood. She didn’t care. She was dead.


End file.
